


Back in Business

by Arati_Mhevet



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Gen, M/M, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-18 01:27:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28858827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arati_Mhevet/pseuds/Arati_Mhevet
Summary: After 'The Wire'. Garak's Clothiers is open again for business. Thank you for your patience and your patronage.
Relationships: Julian Bashir/Elim Garak
Comments: 28
Kudos: 79





	Back in Business

**Back in Business**

After ‘The Wire’.

* * *

After seven days cocooned in the dim but tedious warmth of the infirmary, and knowing that Bashir was at a senior staff meeting, Garak decided to make a run for it. Jabara, coming into the room with a cup of tea, found him rifling through one of the cupboards. “You won’t find them,” she said. “I’ve hidden them.”

Garak, abandoning his search, sat down on the bed and glared at her. “I wasn’t looking for drugs.”

“No,” she said, handing him the tea, “you were looking for your clothes.”

He wrapped his hands around the hot cup. “You’ve hidden my _clothes_?”

“Yes. Shush. Take these.” She passed him his morning’s pills and watched with raptor-like attention as he obeyed her directive. One for the headaches, one for the nausea, and one that they didn’t talk about much, but which Bashir had said was for his ‘mood’. His mood, indeed. Was it better to be a prisoner of Federation chemistry? At least it was a change.

“That’s one way to hold someone against his will,” he grumbled. “Did the doctor put you up to it?”

She snorted. They broadly shared an opinion on Bashir – gifted, handsome, compassionate, and clueless. No, not Bashir’s idea.

“Any particular reason _why_ you would hide my clothes, Esla?”

“Because you’re too vain to leave here wearing that gown.”

He laughed, despite himself. By this point, Jabara probably knew more about him than almost anyone else on DS9. In all fairness, he now knew a great deal about her too – information _was_ his business, and some habits were hard to shake even when you were on your death bed. “I’m feeling quite myself—”

“You’re not as well as you think you are.”

“I’m bored,” he complained.

“Read a book.”

“Esla,” he said, “if I stay here any longer, I shall go mad.”

“If you stay here any longer,” she replied, “ _I_ shall go mad. Which is more to the point, as far as I’m concerned.” She unlocked one of the drawers. “His meeting lasts till lunch, so don’t waste time fussing with your collar.”

She left him to it. Inside the drawer, neatly folded, were the clothes he’d been wearing when he was brought here. Someone had made the effort to have them cleaned; Jabara, he imagined, since this was not the kind of thing that would occur to Bashir. Mercy missions into enemy territory were more his style. Compassionate; clueless. Garak dressed, quickly, aware for the first time of how much weight he’d lost. A rather drastic solution to the encroaching effects of middle age. He wouldn’t advise it, should anyone ask.

He poked his nose out of sickbay. “All clear,” said Jabara. “Though you’ll need these.” She offered him his shoes. “And these,” she said, when they were on, holding out a daunting array of medication. “Don’t skip any of these, Garak. I mean that.”

Headache; nausea; mood. “No, Esla,” he said, meekly, as he shoved them into his pocket. “Thank you, Esla.”

“Do try to take care of yourself,” she said. “People have gone to a lot of trouble on your account.”

“I’ll try.” He nodded his thanks, and went out onto the Promenade for the first time in over a week.

* * *

The lights were the first thing to assail him. Garak rubbed his eyes and contemplated his next move. The shorter route to the shop would take him past both the bar and station security, and he had no wish to see either Quark or Odo. He owed the former an apology, and the latter… Well. He’d overheard Bashir on a couple of occasions during the previous week, barring the constable’s entry to his sick room. Something else for which he must be grateful. That conversation could wait indefinitely, as far as Garak was concerned.

So he turned left, and went round the curve of the station. Mrs O’Brien was opening up the school; half-a-dozen Bajoran children were clamouring for her attention, but, seeing him, she waved and smiled. He nodded back. He liked Keiko O’Brien, who often came to the shop with her little girl and talked to him without guile, although he did feel sorry for her. Her husband clearly had no idea how bored and lonely his wife was. Keiko O’Brien, in Garak’s opinion, could do a great deal better for herself. Not that anyone was likely to ask Garak his opinion. He might tell Bashir anyway.

He walked slowly past the other tailor’s shop, just to be sure that his presence was registered. _No, I haven’t curled up and died. Not yet._ Then he stopped by the grocers. Sometimes, by some miracle or quirk of shipping, fruit and vegetables from home appeared here, and Garak – who had, once upon a time, liked to cook – would grab whatever he found and feast. Nothing today. A shame. He was not above taking comfort where he could find it at the moment. What was there, at least, was the little box of goods that he paid a small fortune every month to have imported from Kelvas Prime: some decent ground _gelat_ ; dried _leya_ slices; a small box of spiced _tasni_ biscuits; a bottle of hot _ceray_ sauce; and a jar of pickled _felan_.

Tuze Alnar, the store’s proprietor, didn’t like Cardassians or their food, but he did like the commission Garak paid to have these treasures shipped in, and so he took payment stoically, albeit without making eye contact. Very noble of him, Garak thought, considering he probably made more out of Garak each month from this single transaction than from any other customer.

“This all came in earlier in the week,” said Tuze. “I was starting to think I’d be stuck with it.”

“I’ve been out of action,” said Garak.

“I don’t care as long as you pay.”

Garak paid, with as much grace as he could muster. While Tuze’s good opinion was hardly high on the list of Garak’s unfulfilled desires, the effort required to maintain a sense of humour in the face of all this had increasingly needed chemical assistance, and, thus far, the Federation anti-depressants weren’t delivering. Garak left the shop gladly, went to the Klingon deli, bought a _raktijino,_ and sat in the seats near the turbolift.

He drank some coffee. He leaned back in the chair. He felt tired, and dispirited. Should he have stayed in the infirmary longer? He checked the time. Half-an-hour since he’d left, and he was already regretting the decision. He could be lying in bed right now – bored, yes, but warm – and enjoying baiting Jabara… Defences down, a familiar and unwelcome voice slipped into the gap.

_How ever do you fill the day, Elim?_

Garak almost laughed out loud. Half-an-hour before the old man started up again. In all honesty, he had expected this sooner. Garak finished his coffee with a gulp. Perhaps those Federation pills _were_ doing something.

* * *

He walked briskly past the closed shop, and on to the ship’s store. There were several parcels waiting for him: the Galipotan shipment he’d been waiting for (which had only arrived yesterday), some parts for the sizing scanner, and a puzzling parcel from Inkaria which he was not expecting. He paid the storage fee and, arms full, walked back towards the shop. As he passed the florist’s, Alori Khaya came dashing out, trailing scarves, ribbons, and sweet perfume.

“There you are!” she cried. “Are you better? I’ve been worried, and nobody would say what the matter was. Well, you know what Starfleet’s like.”

Garak nodded. He did, indeed, know exactly what Starfleet was like.

“Here,” she said, “these are for you.” She held out a small but beautifully arranged bouquet of Cardassian spring flowers. He saw _caroci_ , _nhemeni_ , _isila…_ Tiny little delicate flowers, cocooned in white tissue and held together with a silver bow.

“Khaya,” he said, in startled delight, “however did you get these?”

“Oh, it’s easy when you know how… Oh dear, you don’t have any hands free, do you? Stupid of me.” Before he knew it, his parcels were in her arms, the flowers were in his hands, and he was being towed in her wake over to the shop.

She piled up the parcels in front of his door and said, “Get them in water straight away. Feed them twice a day, morning and evening – just a drop, I’ve given you a pipette. They should last at least a week.”

“I don’t know what to say… Thank you. Thank you, very much.”

“Don’t be silly.” She dropped a kiss on his cheek. “Must dash!” And she was gone. He wondered what he’d done to deserve this. Bought flowers from her regularly, he supposed. Steered her towards better accessories. Listened to her talk and hadn’t always faked interest. 

On the door of the shop there was a sign: _Closed due to indisposition. Thank you for your patience and your patronage._

Garak didn’t remember putting up this sign, but it must have been him. It certainly sounded like him, and he couldn’t think of anyone else who would go to the trouble. “I must have been out of my mind,” he muttered. He unlocked the door and went inside, holding the flowers close.

* * *

The shop was quiet. Garak went to his workbench and put the bouquet down carefully. He brought the parcels in and laid them on the bench. He found a little _kanar_ glass, filled it with water, and arranged the flowers, feeding them as she’d instructed. He sat and looked at them for a while, trying to think about nothing more than their beauty and their delicacy, and the kindness behind the gift, and not about the spring unfolding right now in his beloved city, that he would not see…

What would have happened, he thought, looking around the shop, if he’d died? How quickly would they have cleared this space and his quarters? Would someone have packed up his possessions? Tried to find a next of kin? Bashir, maybe? Perhaps he would’ve sent everything to Tain. What a joke. Garak thought of Mila, opening the parcel, receiving the news, and the joke seemed suddenly less funny.

_One day, peti, you’ll be the death of me…_

Morbid thoughts; no use. He raised the lights slightly, and made a little cup of hot bitter _gelat_. He took out some of the _tasni_ biscuits: spiced, and soft, almost like bread, and in various shapes – stars and flowers and birds. Suddenly the space all around him felt warmer. Inhabited. His. He felt a rare stab of pride. How little he’d had, when he arrived here. How hard he’d worked, ever since. How close he’d come to giving up – and yet here he was, still going.

_I’m not finished yet, Enabran. Almost, but not yet._

He turned his attention to the parcels. He put the parts for the sizing scanner under the desk. A boring job, tinkering constantly until everything was perfectly calibrated. The Galipotan sweaters were as fine as ever, and he set one aside as a gift for Jabara. The package from Inkaria turned out to contain half-a-dozen skeins of soft multicoloured yarn, yellow and pink and purple, and shot through with gold. He had absolutely no memory of buying them, but, yes, there was his name and authorisation on the receipt. Whatever drugged or drunken haze this previous version of him had been in when he made this purchase, he could only commend his taste and eye for quality. Quite beautiful, and did more for his mood than anything else he’d tried over the past few weeks.

Garak spent the morning working out what had been left undone when he took sick, how quickly he could turn everything around, and contacting customers to let them know. He was taking a break and sorting peacefully through the wool store when the door opened. He looked up, smile in place, ready for some conversation. Unfortunately, the visitor was Odo.

“I see you’re back in business,” Odo said.

“More or less.”

“Good,” said Odo, “because I have a few questions for you.”

“If I can help,” said Garak warily, “I will.”

“I have reason to believe that you were at some point connected to the Obsidian Order.”

“Odo,” said Garak, gesturing round the shop, “what would the Obsidian Order want with a man like me? I’m a _tailor_ —”

“I don’t believe you were always a tailor.”

“Well, no! I used to be a g—”

“What’s your connection to Tain?”

“Tain…” Garak shook his head. “No, that’s not a name I recall…”

“You can’t expect me to believe that. Tain. Enabran Tain—”

“Oh, _that_ Tain! I think I made him a suit once.” Not true, although he’d often wished Tain would take advice on how to dress. “But I haven’t heard from him in years.” That, at least, was completely true, however painful.

“You know, don’t you, that I have Bashir’s report?”

“And you know, don’t you, that the doctor is young, and naïve, and prone to flights of fancy—”

“Garak, in case you have not yet fully understood me, I am extremely serious about this. I have four open homicides on my books—”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Odo, but you can’t _possibly_ believe that I—”

“Did you ever meet a woman called Ilnis Alata? She was in the Bajoran resistance.”

Garak turned back to the wool. “Odo, I can’t help you—”

“What about Kejat Doli?” Odo said. “Does that ring any bells? He arrived on Terok Nor shortly after you. Another member of the resistance. Discovered dead, near docking bay 8. He was so badly beaten we could not identify him from his face—”

 _That sounds more like his own side_ , Garak thought sourly. “I have never heard that name before today.”

“Hmm. Well, unless you think I’m interested only in Bajorans, what about Glinn Ilor Renet? Last seen playing dabo; found two hours later with his throat cut—”

“Probably a bar fight. You should ask Quark.”

“Yes, I have more than a few questions for Quark. Not least about the classified biotechnology you attempted to buy from him.”

Suddenly, everything became too much. Garak put down the wool and went over to one of the chairs. He sat down, heavily. His head was hurting; darts of pain behind his left eye that were threatening to become lightning bolts. Odo followed him over to the chairs and stood in front of him, arms folded. “To return to the matter at hand, I’d like to ask about Gul Aheeka. Came to Terok Nor three weeks before the Occupation ended on an undisclosed mission.”

Once, on Romulus, Garak had been thoroughly worked over by the Tal Shiar. He didn’t remember much from that week, but he did remember that when they broke all the fingers on one hand, he’d laughed and laughed and laughed. This wasn’t like that. This was awful. Was this how it felt, to other people? Was this how it would feel, in future? Gently, Garak touched his face. Damp.

 _I’m done_ , he thought. _I’m out. I’m broken. There’s no going back._

“His shuttle exploded en route for home—”

_Not finished yet, eh, Elim?_

Garak put his hand across his eyes. He could see sparks of light in the darkness, like electric shocks. “Odo,” he said, thickly. “Please. Stop.”

_Because you look finished to me._

Everything went quiet. After a moment, Odo said. “Garak? Are you all right?”

Garak couldn’t think of an answer to that.

“Garak?”

Garak sat very still. He pictured the pain as a skein of wool. He pictured his hands in front of him, winding the wool into a ball. When that was done, he pictured his hands concealing the ball entirely. He wasn’t sure this helped, but he wasn’t quite sure what else to do, or indeed what to do next.

“Shall I call for Doctor Bashir?” said Odo.

More questions. “I don’t know what you want from me, Odo,” Garak said. “I can tell you some lies if you want. Would that help? Would that do?”

“No,” said Odo. “That wouldn’t do at all.”

“Then I don’t know what to say. I don’t know these people. I never did.”

“No?”

“No.”

Another long pause. “Can I get you some water?” Odo said.

“No, thank you.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Then… perhaps I should let you get back to work.”

“Perhaps you should.”

“I’ll… be keeping a closer eye on you in future.”

The pain had stopped, or, rather, turned into a sick and hollow feeling. Garak said, “Be my guest.”

The door closed. Garak sat with his eyes shut, thinking about nothing. After about ten minutes, he stood up. Headache, check. Nausea, check. Mood… Garak left the shop, in search of Federation chemistry. _Closed for lunch_ , said the sign _. Open 1400. Thank you for your patience and your patronage._

* * *

He felt both better and worse for having seen Bashir. Better because the boy was so beautiful; worse, because there was nothing to be done. So, in lieu of any other offer, he spent the afternoon quietly and industriously behind the sewing machine, trying to catch up. A few customers came in, collecting long overdue repairs and alterations. Some were unhappy about the delay, some asked politely after his health, most were indifferent. Around 1900, he decided to call it a day. He stood up and stretched, joints cracking, turned off the lights, and went out onto the Promenade. The sign on the door said:

_Closed. Open 0800. Thank you for your patronage._

Garak headed over to Quark’s. He didn’t much like the bar, but if he was stuck on the station for the foreseeable future – and he _was_ stuck on the station for the foreseeable future – then this was a necessary repair. For those beyond the pale of Starfleet, Quark’s, not Ops, was the real hub around which the station spun. At least the place wasn’t busy tonight; a few of the usual punters, one lone pathetic gambler trying their luck at the dabo wheel. Garak slipped silently past Morn, and took a seat at the far end of the bar. Quark made his way slowly, carefully, towards him.

“Garak,” he said, teeth bared. “You’ve got some nerve showing your face.”

“I’m not here to quarrel,” said Garak, equably.

“No? So what are you here for? Odo’s watching us both now, you know—”

“I’m here so you can sell me something.”

“What is it this time? Biogenic weapons?”

“I was thinking more on the lines of supper and a drink.”

“Supper and a _drink_?”

“If that’s not impossible.”

“Anything’s possible.” Quark studied him closely. “ _Kanar_?”

Garak shook his head. “For some reason, I’m off _kanar_.”

“I bet. _Teliskt_?”

“That will do nicely.”

Quark poured him a shot. Garak downed it in one, and Quark refilled the glass. “And what do you want to eat?”

Now there was a question… _Headache, nausea, mood_. “Oh, I don’t know.”

“How hungry are you?”

Garak sighed. “Not particularly.”

“Huh.” Quark went off. Five minutes later, he came back with a bowl of _aytlik_ broth, a plate of warm _matha_ bread, and a dip made from roasted _canka_ nuts. Garak’s stomach growled. He fell on the food like a starving man. Quark watched with the cool satisfaction of a hospitality professional who knows his customer better than the customer does himself. After a while, Quark leaned on the counter, forming a private little bubble containing only the two of them.

“Obsidian Order, huh? Mister Not-So-Plain-And-Simple.”

Garak barely glanced up from his broth. “You shouldn’t believe everything you hear.”

“Rule of Acquisition #59. ‘Always trust what your lobes are telling you.’”

“Oh yes? And what, exactly, are your lobes telling you?”

“That you’re a dangerous man, Garak.”

Garak stirred the spoon round in the broth. “Maybe. Once upon a time.”

“I’ll try to remember,” said Quark.

“I suppose that wouldn’t do you any harm,” said Garak. “I suppose too that it’s possible that I know two dozen different ways to kill you. As you said, anything’s possible. But I don’t see this information coming in useful. Not in the immediate future.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” said Quark.

Garak put down his spoon. Leaning ever so slightly across the bar, he reached out to run his fingertip slowly down the edge of Quark’s collar and back up again, near the throat. Quark to his credit, did not recoil. “He’s no good, you know,” Garak said softly.

“Who?”

“The other tailor. He’s made a shocking mess of that collar.” Garak leaned supplely back and picked up his spoon. Not finished yet. Not quite. “Come into the shop tomorrow. I’ll fix it for you.”

“How much?”

“No charge. What do you call it? A ‘loss leader’.”

Quark laughed. Garak tore off a piece of bread, scooped up the last of the _canka_ nut dip, and popped it into his mouth. He sat back in his seat, replete and content. “Thank you, Quark,” he said. “That was exactly what I needed.”

“You’re welcome.” Quark cleared away the plates, and then came back with the _teliskt_ bottle. “You know,” he said, conversationally, “I told Bashir I was getting you a new sizing scanner.”

Garak thought of the parts back in the shop, weighed up the effort of making the repairs and the sunk cost against the likely asking price, and decided, on balance, that all things considered this was not a bad deal. He gestured at the bottle. “It would be a terrible shame,” he said, “to turn you into a liar.”

“My thinking exactly,” said Quark. He poured them both a shot of the _teliskt_. “All right, Garak. Let’s talk business.”

* * *

_18 th-19th January 2021_

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Skittles_Walters, who will recognise several things here.
> 
> I used [this map](https://memory-alpha.fandom.com/wiki/Promenade?file=Promenade_floor_plan.png) of the Promenade as inspiration. I imagine Garak and the local barber put together joint deals during Gratitude Festivals, etc., now there's a story idea if ever there was.


End file.
